


in you i found a home

by N1ghtWr1ter



Category: Pride and Prejudice (2005), Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clexa, F/F, Fingering, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Linctavia - Freeform, Murphamy - Freeform, Romance, Smut, Strap-Ons, ranya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtWr1ter/pseuds/N1ghtWr1ter
Summary: When Clarke Bennet, a girl of modest means but sparkling wit, meets Lexa Darcy, a proud and inscrutable gentlewoman in possession of a fortune, sparks fly. Clarke is immediately determined to hate the disagreeable Darcy, but when her older sister Raven starts falling for Lexa's best friend Anya, she finds herself drawn into a tangled web of social snubs and ties of blood and friendship that will either lead to the deepest happiness the world has known, or the ruin of her family's good name and prospects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, hope you enjoy this fusion of Clexa and Pride and Prejudice! This story was commissioned by a good friend and it will update every two weeks. If you like my writing and are interested in supporting it, please consider checking me out on Patreon! I can't say much about it due to AO3's policies, but if you'd like to learn more, visit my tumblr (n1ghtwr1ter.tumblr.com). Otherwise, let me know what you think in the comments and on tumblr @n1ghtwr1ter!

Clarke Bennett made her way back across the field to Longbourne in no particular hurry, a small easel under one arm and her composition book under the other, flushed with both effort and triumph. She knew that if she was caught by her father the way she was, with her hair an absolute wreckage of flyaways whisping out from their messy bun; her hem dotted with flecks of mud and damp with the morning dew; and, unbeknownst to her, a few smudges of charcoal smeared across her cheeks, she’d be in for quite the lecture. “You look an utter fright, absolutely  _ wild,”  _ she could almost hear Mr. Bennet say. “Imagine if anyone saw you! They would be asking me what sort of house I keep, to allow my second-eldest daughter the run of the county!”

But with four other siblings to wrangle, and her mother absolutely no help (and, quite often, a subtle hindrance) in the matter, Clarke knew she was very unlikely to be discovered upon her return from the excursion. And, she reasoned, it had been necessary; she had come to the end of her latest composition, and she wanted to savor the bittersweetness of finishing something she had been working on half the summer. It was utterly impossible to savor  _ anything  _ with her siblings about: Octavia and Jasper were either fussing or plotting with each other over something; Raven and Monty were always blowing something up in the root cellar, or outside and terrifying the animals into a stampede; and her father was always shouting at all of them to quiet  _ down,  _ your mother’s working – as though she was doing anything other than poring over the latest treatises in medicine – and adding to the general uproar.

No, it was utterly impossible to achieve a moment’s peace in a house like that, and while Clarke was used to it, and often enjoyed observing the chaos herself, there were some things that just couldn’t be shared – at least not by her family, so caught up in their own dramas that they were unlikely to understand the need for the quiet resolution of her own. And so she had stolen out of the bed she shared with her elder sister just after dawn that morning and made her way through the fields of tall, waving wildflowers. She had passed by a few of the servants, on their way to feed the pigs and begin the morning milking, but they were used to her odd habits and liked her well enough to not tell tales. 

It was a cool morning, enough so that the breeze nipped her cheeks with a reminder of the oncoming autumn, and it had made her wish, momentarily, that she had brought a thicker shawl, but ultimately she had found that she appreciated it. They had had a very long, hot, vibrant summer, but it had begun to feel stifling. Now, however, the year was at last beginning to turn, and there was always something about autumn that roused Clarke’s nerves with a call to adventure: here at last, the chill wind seemed to say, was possibility! Something new could be coming any day now, around any corner – all she had to do was keep a weather eye on the horizon for it.

The sensation had inspired Clarke’s hand to greater heights of animation, and she had finished the composition with a flourish. Admittedly, she had lingered out there to watch the sun cresting the waving tops of the trees, burnishing them with its pale golden light, but when its rays had begun falling upon her and promising that despite its chilly start, the day was going to be hot, Clarke had gathered her drawing materials and begun making her way back to Longbourne.

Shaking her head to clear it of fancy, Clarke turned her attention to the scene at hand. It was just as she had predicted: the calm of the morning was quite shattered by the shouting emanating from the house. She proceeded briskly down the lane, enjoying the sight of the grand yet somewhat shabby edifice emerging from between the row of oaks, shaggy with moss and hanging vines, and imagined where all of her family were sure to be, according to their custom.

Raven, her elder sister by two years, was certain to be with her brother, Monty, five years Clarke’s junior, in their laboratory, cooking up more strange scents and explosions. Ever since Clarke’s mother had brought home from town a set of chemicals, suitable for making dyes and small reactions, her sister had been obsessed. She had begged their mother for more of the same, and larger quantities, and, eventually, some truly strange substances, in order to continue her odd experiments – which had no purpose, as far as Clarke could tell, except to make noise and smell bad. Every so often Raven might drag her and their other siblings out to a clearing in the middle of a stand of trees near their home – which had used to be a very fine habitat for game birds before they’d got to it, their mother had pointed out despairingly – and show off their latest creation: a larger  _ BOOM  _ than ever before, the last of which had left Clarke half-deafened for nearly a week.

Her younger sister, Octavia, three years younger than Clarke, was most likely to be found with their oldest brother, Jasper, four years younger, gossiping or meddling in something or making a hash of their sewing. It was a toss-up on any given day whether the two middle Bennets adored or despised each other – half the time, it seemed to Clarke, they were shouting at each other over some row that was intelligible only to the two of them, while the other half they were thick as thieves, and just as certain to be plotting something. Most mischief that they got themselves into was Octavia’s fault, but Jasper certainly did not have to follow her around everywhere like her very own pet lamb, so Clarke was of the opinion that he deserved nearly as much trouble as he got.

As she made her way into Longbourne’s main yard, Clarke found that her assessments were very nearly correct: upon her approach, a muffled  _ thoom  _ arose from the cellar doors, frightening the geese clustered nearby not a whit, and a cloud of pale smoke issued forth shortly afterward. Clarke sucked in a breath and waved it away from her face as she passed through, making her way onto the rickety porch her mother was always mumbling vaguely about fixing and into the house proper. There she found Jasper and Octavia huddled at the door of their mother’s study, hissing back and forth and shoving each other for a better vantage point from which to eavesdrop.

With as light a step as she was capable, Clarke crept over to her two most troublesome siblings and, when they gave no sign of noticing her presence, reached out and tweaked their ears. They responded with twin roars of outrage, but Clarke’s voice rose above theirs: “What have I told you about listening at doors?”

As was her intent, the door to Mrs. Bennet’s study swung open immediately, revealing her mother and father in close conference. From what Clarke could tell, Marcus Bennet was beseeching Abigail, his wife of nearly thirty years, to go and introduce herself to someone who was new to the neighborhood – a Miss Bingley, apparently, who had five thousand a year and, Octavia informed her in a delighted whisper, was single. Clarke schooled herself not to roll her eyes at her younger sister’s enthusiasm, but could not quite manage it.

Jasper and Octavia were not, however, to be upbraided immediately, much to Clarke’s annoyance. Mr. Bennet only gave them a very stern look before continuing to harangue his wife: “You know that we may not visit if you do not, and how else are we to form the acquaintance?”

Mrs. Bennet affected stifling a yawn, and Clarke turned away to hide her smirk. “I do not understand why the acquaintance should need to be formed in the first place. I cannot imagine what pleasure or utility one so young and wealthy might find in the company of one so many years older as myself.”

“Oh, Mrs. Bennet, why must you be so tiresome!” Clarke’s father burst out, occasioning a fresh round of giggling from Jasper and Octavia. “It is not about whether you take any pleasure in each other’s acquaintance – it is so that Miss Bingley might fall in love with one of your children and marry them!”

Mrs. Bennet looked at him as though she had never heard of such an outlandish idea, and now it was Clarke’s turn to affect a sudden fit of coughing. “Ah, indeed – and was that, then, her purpose in settling here?”

Mr. Bennet scoffed. “Of course not! How could it have been? But see here, Mrs. Bennet –” And now began a chase with which Clarke was quite familiar, as Mrs. Bennet began moving about her study, picking things up and putting them down in order to avoid directly looking directly at her harrying husband, lips twitching in the form of a curtailed grin. “You know that your rather attenuated fortune is not secure when you die, and that as it is entailed to the eldest male issue of your grandfather’s lineage –”

“A barbaric and antiquated custom,” Mrs. Bennet mumbled, “as nowadays nearly all estates pass to the eldest regardless of sex –”

“-whatever remains to you will not pass to your children, but to quite a distant cousin, who may turn any of us out in the street whenever he so chooses –”

Clarke turned away, not caring to listen anymore. She had heard this particular lament of her father’s often enough that she could repeat it syllable for syllable – it was as though Mr. Bennet thought he might diminish its veracity by repetition. In turning, however, she nearly had the misfortune of walking directly into Raven – who, by her stonefacedness and set shoulders, could not have missed hearing the subject of conversation.

“It is nothing,” Clarke assured her, attempting to take her by the hand and lead her away, but her older sister would not be led. Clarke’s heart ached for her as she watched her sister listen to their parents squabble. Her relationship with Raven was occasionally fraught, given the eldest Miss Bennet’s habit of holing herself up in her workshop with only Monty for occasional company, and sometimes emerging only to demand her siblings’ attention to whatever new explosion she might have concocted. But she put up with Raven’s oddities and quirks because of the painful history under which she knew her sister labored.

She had always felt pressure, as the eldest, to find someone wealthy to marry, in whose fortune their other siblings might be assured of some security regarding their own welfare. At least, her father was often to be found lamenting, if  _ Raven  _ were to catch the eye of a wealthy gentleman or -woman, they should be able to depend upon their new sibling-in-law’s hospitality for their living and society, until they could be respectably settled themselves. Raven had not ever been much for marriage or romance but, taking family duty to heart, had girded her loins and gone to the balls and meetings held amongst those of their acquaintance with a good will and a strong stomach. However, she had rather more of wit than was considered fashionable for someone in her position, and rather little inclination not to exercise it. Their mother had often remarked that whomever found a good match in Raven would be a singular individual, as was Raven herself.

The eldest Miss Bennet thought she had found just such a person in a young man called Finn. He had come into Hertfordshire for sport one autumn and had immediately been taken with her beauty, as had many a person – but he had also appeared to enjoy her intellect just as much, and to take her sharp tongue in stride, even when its lash fell upon him. He had had several pleasant interactions with her at the outset, had sought out her company almost exclusively, and had nearly even made himself agreeable to their mother – but what had been even more remarkable to Clarke was how often they had danced together. It was not an activity that her eldest sister particularly enjoyed, and the fact that Raven had agreed to do so spoke much to Miss Bennet’s regard for the gentleman. Raven was not at all demonstrative in her feelings, and not particularly inclined to speak of them even to Clarke, but this sort of agreeability told her that Raven was likely very fond of him.

But it was not to be. It appeared that Finn was already engaged to a girl in town of no small fortune, and had merely sought to amuse himself with the company of a pleasant young woman while in the country. As soon as the shooting season ended, he returned to his abode and his four thousand a year, and made his betrothéd his wife, and none of them heard any more from him. Mr. Bennet had been inconsolable, as he had considered the match all but made – but Raven had scarcely shed a tear. She had withdrawn even further into her workshop and her studies, and had only spoken of the affair long enough to make it known that she would hear no more of it.

But while she might choose to ignore the world, the world would not ignore her. A young woman of three-and-twenty with few connections and even lesser fortune was not so great a prize, even if her beauty was as great as Raven’s was known in Hertfordshire to be. It also did not help that her humor was sharp and her tongue was sharper, and she did not suffer fools easily. Their father was often after Raven to be more civil, to make nice or at least to make amends, but the eldest Miss Bennet protested that if eligible bachelors did not want to be made fun of, they should try to present smaller targets. And then there was the matter of her eccentricities, which was no small matter – chief among them, her commitment to her study of chemistry, most particularly those chemicals which combined to cause explosions. It was understandable, perhaps, that most of those who courted Raven affected amusement at her “hobby,” but failed to understand just how important it was to her happiness. Every one of them had assumed that, once settled in matrimony, she would cease such pursuits – and every one of them had been rebuffed with stinging wit and barely-concealed disdain.

But there was no getting around the fact that as the eldest in a family with as little money as they had, it was most incumbent upon Raven to marry, and to marry well. Time was closing in upon them, and with each passing day that none of them were married, it grew more likely that she would have to accept someone she did not love, and who might seek to impose such constraints upon her as she would be hard-put to accept. Clarke could see all of this in Raven’s face, and more, and again entreated her to leave their parents to their quarrel, but Raven would not be moved. “I must listen to this, Clarke,” she said quietly, “as it concerns me most of all.” Clarke sighed, but remained with her sister so that she might support her through any distress.

“-and there is to be a ball tomorrow, Mrs. Bennet, you know this well, and we shall be the only family in the neighborhood who do not have the right of addressing her. The Lucases have already been and gone, and you know that their son John is of an age with Raven –”

Mrs. Bennet continued to putter under this onslaught, at last removing from her study into the drawing room with an orchid that she intended to place there to see if the conditions would be more conducive to its growth. Clarke caught a glimpse of her mother’s mouth as she went past, and saw that it twitched at the corners with amusement. Hoping that the expression might bode well, she followed her parents and settled herself on a couch to watch the fray. Jasper and Octavia were hot on her heels, and Raven came after, if somewhat reluctantly.

As soon as they had all arrived, Clarke’s younger siblings joined their father in a chorus of mingled excoriations and entreaties – that if Mrs. Bennet were to but exert herself a little to form the acquaintance, Miss Bingley might indeed fall in love with one of them, and their family might be saved – “We are expecting quite a lot of her, are we not, even if she does have five thousand a year?” Raven muttered to Clarke out of the corner of her mouth, eliciting a smirk – or at least, penury might be put off for some time later, Mr. Bennet amended, with yet another sharp look at Jasper and Octavia. Attracted by the noise, Monty wandered into the room, all over soot as usual, and took his habitual place by his eldest sister’s side.

Their father’s enthusiasm for his topic was undiminished by his larger audience. “I simply must insist that you go and visit her at once!” Mr. Bennet cried.

But Mrs. Bennet, having finished arranging her orchid and having grown tired of her joke at roughly the same moment, turned back to look at her family with a broad smile on her face. “There’s no need,” she said, nodding at her husband. “I already have.”

The eldest two Bennet daughters merely raised their eyebrows, but Mrs. Bennet received the reaction she had been soliciting through her capriciousness from the other members of the family – the father especially, once he realized what she was about. “Have? But you said that – oh, Mrs. Bennet! How can you tease me so? Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?” he cried over the astonished exclamations of Octavia and Jasper.

“You are mistaken,” Mrs. Bennet replied, “I have the utmost respect for them. They have been my constant companions these past thirty years.”

Mr. Bennet let out a scoff, but he was far too keen to learn more of their new neighbor to be angry for long. “Well then – is she amiable?”

Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Jasper, who was unable to hold in his own excited query. “Is she handsome?”

(“With five thousand a year, I do not believe it would matter if she had warts and a leer,” Clarke remarked to Raven, who hid her snort behind her hand.)

Mrs. Bennet was prepared to respond that she was not quite qualified to answer such a question, but was again interrupted, this time by Octavia, whose question was far more pertinent to the interest of them all (no matter how much cool disinterest Clarke and Raven might have been affecting): “Is she coming to the ball tomorrow, Mama?”

Here at last was a question that Mrs. Bennet was inclined to answer, and she did so with both relief and no small measure of happiness – for as much as she enjoyed teasing her family, and getting them all worked up into a lather, she also took great pleasure in delighting them. Her answer certainly served to do so: “Indeed she is.”

The room erupted into effusions of joy, which just as swiftly became declarations of the preponderance of preparations required for each member of the family to show to best advantage at the ball. Jasper’s stockings required mending (“as they always do – my word, but you cannot seem to keep a pair of them in good repair!”), but that was easily settled – Octavia was better at setting them right, and would do so in return for her brother’s help in trimming her new hat (“For you  _ are  _ better at these sort of delicate things, I’ve always said so,” thus proving that flattery does, in fact, get one somewhere). Monty’s one good suit of clothes needed to be retrieved from the cedar closet and shaken out so that he would look at least presentable, even though he badly did not want to – a shy young man, he preferred to be heard and not seen, although unfortunately it was largely impossible to be one and not the other when playing the piano (his greatest passion, along with making things explode). Even Clarke found herself getting caught up in the excitement, bargaining with her sister over whether she could wear her green shoes, as they would look quite well when paired with her muslin dress. For even if she did not find Miss Bingley as amiable or as handsome as Jasper and Octavia seemed certain she would be, at the very least she was someone new. Clarke could not help but be reminded of the way the breeze had tasted that morning – for tomorrow was the first dance of the season. It seemed that the autumn winds had blown change into her life at last.

***

Clarke Bennet was not the only one looking forward to the morrow’s ball. The topic of most discussion at Longbourne – indeed, the topic of  _ all  _ discussion at Longbourne, and of the great majority in Meryton and its environs – was also anticipating it most eagerly. Having declared herself “bored to tears” with the company of those who accompanied her from London, Anya Bingley was nearly as ready to enter society in Hertfordshire as that society was to receive her. She had already met the primary families in the county, or at least their chief members, and was looking forward to meeting those nearer her own age – on the whole, a more agreeable set of people, she believed.

“You are conflating agreeability with eagerness to please,” a companion of hers, one Lexa Darcy, told her sternly. “And you may be certain that all of those present at this event will be very much the latter. It is near impossible to ascertain the true degree of the former in such an environment.”

Bingley rolled her eyes at the other and intoned, “And what would you have me do then, Darcy? I assume that if it were up to you we should be locked in a room together until we had either fallen in love or killed one another.”

Miss Lexa Darcy did not dignify this with a response, only continued attending to the letter she was writing to her younger brother Aden Darcy (chiefly on the subject of why he must persevere with his studies, disappointed as he was that a bout of fever and chills had prevented him from accompanying them to Netherfield) and actively ignoring the utterly undignified posture of her best friend, long limbs draped every which way across the sofa she was occupying. Fortunately it did not last long – Anya Bingley could scarcely stand to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time, a trait that her younger brother did not fail to remark upon.

“I daresay you will not be able to stay in this little hamlet long enough to be entranced by one or another of the eligible young ladies here,” Mr. Roan Bingley told her, more than a little snidely. “There is far too little happening here to amuse you, and certainly not enough society to be engaged with a ball every night.”

“And do you imagine that is the only thing that would satisfy me?” she cried, springing up from the sofa and striding to the window with an aggrieved air. When no reply was forthcoming she cast an aggrieved glance at her brother and her friend, who was rather like a brother to her at this point, although moments like these made her question why they got along so well: Lexa was frequently grave and serious, and Anya liked to fancy herself a lighter sort of person, ill at ease with dull sitting and long silences.

Lexa and Roan shared a look, but not a sentiment: while the younger Bingley’s was full of satisfaction, Darcy’s held only concern. Judging rightly that she would get no help from that quarter, as Roan’s only object had been to nettle his sister, Lexa set aside her book and joined her friend at the window. “I do not seek to diminish your anticipation of what delights you may find at the ball,” she said in a low tone, conscious of the younger Bingley’s keen attention to her words (and somewhat aggravated by the inattention of the elder, who most needed to hear them), “only to urge caution. Society here may not be quite so sophisticated as it is in town, and appearances of agreeability may be in pursuit of material gain, with little regard for future happiness.”

“You mean they are all likely to be out for my fortune, and not care a whit for me,” Anya snapped, but she softened a bit when she saw the look on Darcy’s face. “I’m sorry, Darcy. I know you have my best interests at heart. What would you have me do, then?”

“Perhaps,” Lexa said, a bit haltingly, “you might refrain from attending such an affair, at least until the novelty of your presence at Netherfield has worn off somewhat, and the neighborhood has grown used to your being settled here –”

“No good,” the elder Bingley said with a wry smile, “for I have already given my word to several people that I would see them at the ball tomorrow. And even you have to agree that it would be very poor form not to honor my promises now.”

Darcy was forced to acknowledge that it would certainly decrease her friend’s standing in the society of Hertfordshire, something that she did not consider altogether terrible (although certainly not to the degree that such an action would promise) – but Anya clearly considered it the worst thing in the world, and said so. “Can you imagine, Darcy – much praise has been heaped upon the beauty and accomplishments of the Bennet siblings of Longbourne, especially the two eldest – and while I did not have the opportunity of judging for myself, I  _ was  _ able to tell that their mother is a protective sort of person. I cannot believe that she would allow me to ingratiate myself with them if she thought I was the kind of person who did not keep my promises.”

_ “I  _ cannot imagine that they can be all that attractive or accomplished, if I have never heard of them,” Roan put in, entirely unsolicited. “No matter what the truth of the Bennet siblings may be, it cannot bode well if they are entirely unknown in town.” He was roundly ignored, and left to sulk on the window seat opposite.

Lexa let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well, I see you are not to be swayed. All I would caution you, however, is to guard your heart and make certain that you give it only to someone worthy. Someone, that is, whose care is for your sentiments and not your fortune.”

“It is lucky indeed then, that I shall have you to help look after both,” Anya quipped, giving her friend a smirk that managed to be at once self-satisfied and genuine. For all that she enjoyed needling Darcy, she knew that her friend really did care for her happiness, and wanted to see her settled in that most coveted yet elusive state of affairs: a truly happy, loving marriage.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that any single heir, in possession of a large fortune, must be in want of a spouse. But while Anya Bingley did indeed envision herself settling down in matrimony eventually, she considered the prospect with some portion of distaste. Marriage was, to her, an ultimately sedate activity, one for people whose lives had already come and gone. And she was full of life! Perhaps too much of it, if her younger brother were to be believed. That was all well and good for  _ him;  _ if he was content to continue attending balls and parties and meetings that all blended together, so much the better. But Miss Bingley was made of different stuff.

It had always been so, much to the amusement of their father and the consternation of their mother. The late Mr. Bingley had considered himself “a lively chap,” always moving about in search of some fresh vista or amusement, and he viewed his heir as being cut from the same cloth. It had served the head of the household well, as he had amassed quite a fortune in trade; but, his wife looking to forget that the family had ever been anything other than members of the highest society, worried that instead of seeking a place in which to build an estate, as he had often promised he would, her husband might continue his adventure-seeking ways, and might inspire his daughter to do the same.

On the first count, she was tragically correct: despite having made more than enough to see several generations of his family settled in landed comfort, Mr. Bingley was always on the cusp of surrendering his affairs to a steward, and undertaking “one last trip, just to make sure everything’s set up proper.” When Anya Bingley had only just turned twenty, his seventh such trip did indeed turn out to be final: his ship was declared lost in a storm off the coast of India.

On the second count, however, Mrs. Bingley’s worries proved unfounded. Not because Anya had settled down in any way, but because she did not possess the same head for facts and figures as did her father. She greatly enjoyed undertaking the journeys, seeing new sights and experiencing other cultures, but could not stand to listen to her workmen and representatives drone on and on about units sold or bargains struck for longer than a quarter of an hour. One of her stewards had timed it exactly on a pocketwatch hidden in his coat: fifteen minutes until her leg started to twitch, another five and she would be unable to maintain eye contact, but must be constantly glancing around the room in desperate search of something fresh to look at; five more and she would be up and pacing, promising that she was listening but unable to repeat back anything of what she had heard. Within an hour she would throw up her hands and declare that she could take no more of this, she must go outside and take some air or she would grow entirely too stupid in the head to continue. More often than not, negotiations did  _ not  _ continue; and after a year or so of similar mismanagement, the family’s financial advisor predicted that if the course continued, Anya stood to lose in less than a decade what it had taken half a lifetime for her father to build.

While she put up a good show of outrage, the new head of the Bingley family surrendered the control of day-to-day management of her family’s finances to grateful managers with no small amount of relief. There had always been a restlessness within her, one that manifested itself in inattention; while a good-natured, cheerful child, she had often been chastised by her tutors for her mind’s habit of wandering. It seemed pleased to pay attention to anything and everything, excepting her books and her tutors’ voices. There was nothing of maliciousness in it, and she meant no offense, but she could not seem to stop giving it.

Because she was so very lively, and always game for some activity, be it a hunt or a ball or a card party, she found friends in London who felt similarly, but she was not so popular with the more fashionable set of society, who considered such perpetual motion uncouth. “How can I help it,” she had remarked with some frustration to Darcy not very long ago, after Roan had informed her that she was not popular among the second sons and sisters he often moved about town with, “when they are all so very  _ boring?”  _ Darcy had no answer for this, as she could not comprehend herself why she must so often suffer fools, only that the world seemed filled with them.

But there was something about being in the country that refreshed Bingley, made the blood seem to move more quickly in her veins. Here at last was novelty, something to break up the monotony of town, of seeing all the same society day after day. She was here under the pretense of looking for someplace in which to establish their family seat, and settle down; she knew that her mother was hoping she might also find a suitable partner with whom to establish the next generation of Bingleys. She knew that Roan was here largely because he had had a spat with his closest friend in London, and wanted to create the appearance of leaving in a huff. And she knew that Darcy was here because, as she had put it, “someone needs to look after you.”

“I’m older than you, you know,” she had pointed out, and this was true – she was six-and-twenty to Darcy’s four.

“You rarely act like it,” Lexa had responded quickly, and to that Bingley had had no honest rejoinder.

As for Bingley herself, she doubted that somewhere like Hertfordshire would be the place in which she finally settled down; in fact, having engaged to rent Netherfield Park for a period of six months, she doubted she would make it three before the slower pace of country life got to her and she had to return to London or risk insanity. But anything was possible, she supposed, looking out on the estate’s starlit fields. The ball tomorrow might be a good gauge for whether or not life in the country agreed with her after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://s558.photobucket.com/user/calfaolan/media/lexa%20darcy_zpsj1jefxx2.png.html)
> 
> Merry surprise Christmas! I was blown away by the response to the last chapter - thank you guys so much! I hope you enjoy this one as much. Please let me know what you think in the comments and on tumblr @n1ghtwr1ter - and if you're interested in reading chapters of this fic a week early, please consider becoming one of my Patrons! To learn more, please visit my tumblr and click the link in the header.
> 
> Also, this chapter features amazing art of Lexa Darcy by @morgue-legs on tumblr! Go check out their blog and let them know how awesome it is!

The ball was shaping up to be quite the lively event, despite there having been no sighting of Bingley or any other member of her party. Clarke put them quite out of her mind, and focused on having an excellent time, which was not hard to do: as it was the first ball of the season, everyone was in quite high spirits, delighted at their newfound freedom from the summer’s languid torpor and intent on celebrating it with an effusion of music, dancing, and gossip.

Clarke danced the first and second dances, but was obliged to sit out the third by the lack of suitable partners. She was eyeing Jasper and Octavia’s rather enthusiastic twirling with a certain degree of concern, wondering whether it might be better to remove them from the throng before their flying elbows could do anyone lasting harm, when she felt her own elbow tugged sharply and fell backward into a chair.

“Confound you, Murphy!” she shouted over the general tumult, but her exasperation was short-lived – she was far too happy to see her friend, John Lucas, whom everyone called Murphy. The nickname had originated in early childhood and Clarke couldn’t have said why for the life of her, but she was vaguely certain that it had come from her own imagination. Still, it had stuck, and sometimes Sir William and Lady Lucas caught themselves calling their own son by the moniker.

Murphy was a sallow young man of seven-and-twenty, his hair lank and somewhat longer than was fashionable, and his mouth typically creased in a smirk. Despite his appearance, however, he was one of Clarke’s oldest friends, and her closest confidante outside of her own family circle.

“That was for the tea,” he pointed out, and Clarke had to concede that his prank was warranted – when they had taken tea together last month, she had swapped the sugar in the bowl for salt and neglected to inform her friend before he had taken his first mouthful.

“Very well,” she replied, but her mind turned quickly to other matters. Murphy was the sort of person who often managed to move about the world undetected. It was a trait that had been rather deleterious for his marriage prospects – as the second son of a household whose heir had died, it was incumbent upon him to marry well, or risk the slow decline of his family’s fortunes – but it also meant that Murphy often garnered intelligence on the comings and goings of the neighborhood far before anyone else. (It did not hurt, also, that his father, Sir William, was an incorrigible gossip.)

“Has Miss Bingley seen fit yet to make an appearance?” Clarke asked, dipping her head close to Murphy’s so that he could hear her words above the dull roar of the crowded ballroom.

Her friend shook his head. “Not that I know of – but her coming is so long-awaited that I can’t imagine it will be long unremarked, if at all.”

His words were soon borne out. As they watched, a low murmur swept the room, and the dancing bodies slowed with the music as a sea of heads began turning towards the door. Clarke and Murphy soon stood, craning their necks to see above the crowd. The roar of talk and noise dimmed, then faded to a low susurrus of whispers, like a gossipy wind blowing through the assembly. All eyes were fixed upon the entrance of three persons through the door to the hall.

All three were young and fashionably dressed, although two more colorfully than the third: the blond man and woman, who bore so strong a family resemblance that they could not but be brother and sister, were dressed in matching blue coats and dove-gray hats, which they removed as upon entering the room; while the third, a dark-haired young woman, dressed in an ashen coat and cream-colored breeches, had a similarly grave expression upon her face. Clarke was immediately struck by the impression of someone who did not want to be here.

She inclined her head to better attend Murphy, who was already whispering in her ear: “On the right is Anya Bingley, and on the far left is her younger brother, Roan, who came with her from London.” As Clarke watched, Bingley and Roan inclined their heads to Mr. Linscott, whose hall this was. But her gaze could not stay on them for long, handsome as they were; her eyes seemed drawn inexorably to the third individual, whose face continued to be just as serious as it had begun, even as she mouthed the usual pleasantries.

“Who is the third person with them?” she could not keep herself from asking, as she perused the striking features – the high cheekbones and firm jaw that nearly begged to be sketched, the piercing green eyes that defied that impulse. “Poor soul; she looks utterly miserable.”

“Miserable she may be,” Murphy replied, “but poor she is not, with ten thousand a year. That’s Miss Lexa Darcy. I’ve heard she owns half of Darbyshire.”

“The miserable half,” Clarke decided, and grinned when her companion could not hold in a snort.

The whispers and murmurs grew louder as Darcy and the Bingleys moved into the room, the crowd parting before them like fish before a shark. Miss Bingley glanced about the hall with an eager expression, nodding politely to those she knew but clearly intent upon joining the festivities. Her brother, however, appeared bored already, his gaze roving through the crowd with ill-concealed hauteur. His manners formed quite the contrast with his sister’s – while the elder Bingley greeted her acquaintance with enthusiasm, Mr. Bingley did so with a decided lack of spirit. Clarke couldn’t keep her lip from curling as he passed by.

Although Miss Darcy had accompanied the Bingleys from London and must thus have made much of the same acquaintance, she was even less inclined to be sociable than Roan. She only nodded her head in acknowledgement to those who addressed her, and Clarke could not have seen her mutter more than a few words. Her appearance was captivating, surely, but Clarke knew well that appearances were not necessarily indicative of character. What Darcy’s was, she reasoned, would only be determined through conversation and dancing.

But that was not to be. Despite there being so great a deficit of heirs that quite a few of the second sons and sisters were obliged to be seated during each number, Darcy did not dance. When the festivities resumed, instead of seeking introduction to any of the eligible seconds in the hall, she instead walked about, doing her best to avoid all conversation by standing in corners and not speaking unless directly addressed; and, it was largely reported, even when she  _ was  _ directly addressed by those who had the dubious pleasure of her acquaintance, she was quite taciturn, and her countenance forbidding. As Clarke went about her evening, laughing and dancing and enjoying the company of her family and friends, she found herself inadvertently catching the eye of Miss Lexa Darcy rather often. It skated away from hers just as quickly, and Clarke found that this rudeness, coupled with the talk amongst the assembly of her poor manners and haughty airs, soon caused dislike for the gentlewoman to curdle in her stomach.

This impression was rather confirmed and cemented by an incident that happened towards the latter half of the ball. Yet again obliged to be seated for one of the dances, she was watching and laughing as Murphy twirled with a graceless young poppycock, and did his best not to get his feet stepped on too many times. She heard the low hum of voices nearby and turned to see who it might be. To her surprise, it was Darcy and Miss Bingley, who had taken a very rare pause in her dancing to address her friend.

“Come on, Darcy, I must see you dance,” Bingley half-shouted over the noise. “I hate to see you standing about in so stupid a manner, when you could have anyone in the room as your partner!”

Darcy shook her head, frowning. “I won’t. You know how disagreeable it is to me to stand up with someone with whom I am not acquainted, and your brother is engaged. There are no others in the room with whom it would not be a punishment to dance.”

Bingley rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Darcy, the way you carry on – I have never seen so many pretty girls in my life!”

_ “You  _ are dancing with the only attractive woman in the room,” Darcy replied. Quickly turning her head in the direction that was indicated, Clarke was warmly gratified to see her sister, waiting for Bingley to resume the dance.

“She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Bingley said, a thin but genuine smile on her face, and Clarke saw her eyes gleaming with the truth of her words. “And her manners – she was nearly as stiff and formal as you were the first two dances, but then I managed to make her laugh, and we have hardly stopped laughing since! I declare I might be half in love already if I did not know better!”

Clarke felt her heart flutter a bit in her chest, and looked back at Raven, trying to gauge her sister’s impression of her partner. Raven was not demonstrative at the best of times, and Clarke was certain that in such company, and with such a great number of people, she would be doing her best to conceal any emotions Bingley might have engendered in her. True to form, she found that Raven was looking rather unconcernedly back at Bingley, waiting for her to return with an arched eyebrow – yet Clarke discerned a flush of color across her cheeks that told her more than any words might have. She doubted that her sister was half in love with Bingley – she guarded her heart much more closely than that – but the gentlewoman clearly affected her. She turned back to her glass of punch to hide her smile.

“But there is one of her sisters sitting just there,” she heard Bingley say, and immediately had to school herself not to whip her head around. Clarke realized that they must be unaware that she was near enough to hear their conversation, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks at the thought. “She is very pretty and, if she is anything like her older sibling, quite agreeable, I dare say. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” Darcy asked, somewhat unconvincingly, and this time Clarke could not help turning to catch her eye once more. Yet again it was withdrawn as soon as it had been granted, and she let out her breath in a little ill-tempered huff. Her displeasure at the gentlewoman’s rudeness soon turned to outrage, however, when she heard Darcy’s next words:

“She is tolerable, I suppose, but not pretty enough to tempt me. You should know me well enough by now to know that I am not in the business of giving consequences to young seconds scorned by other heirs.” Clarke turned to face Darcy and her companion, fully prepared to inform them of her exact opinion of their conversation, but the dark look on Darcy’s face, almost verging on melancholy, gave her pause. Bingley, for her part, looked as though she expected the behavior, but there was an air of sympathy to her that Clarke could not quite figure out.

“You had better go back to your partner and enjoy her wit,” Darcy continued after a moment, “for you are wasting your time with me.”

Bingley opened her mouth as though to protest, but seemed to think better of it, and simply clapped her friend on the shoulder before following her advice. Clarke remained silently watching, trapped between seething at the offense inadvertently given and guilt at possessing knowledge she was not meant to have. Darcy’s attention remained on her friend for a while, frowning as she watched her dance with Raven, but almost inevitably her eyes strayed to Clarke’s. As soon as they met, color rose to Darcy’s cheeks, and Clarke felt an answering flush in her own, but she determined to keep her gaze steady. It was Darcy who looked away first and, after a moment, she ducked away, and had soon disappeared into the crowd.

She did not have long to dwell on the disagreeable Miss Darcy, however, as Murphy, having extricated himself from his partner, returned to their table and threw himself into a chair. “I am certain to be all over bruises,” he lamented, indicating his feet. “Mr. Atom has all the grace of a heifer cavorting in a barn.” He would have gone on, but Clarke hissed him into silence, drew his head down near hers, and swiftly conveyed all that had happened. When she had finished, Murphy looked at her in shock.

“If I had not known you all my life to be a relatively truthful person – aside from that story of yours about Miss Fox’s horse –” and here Clarke blushingly rolled her eyes while neither confirming nor denying his accusation, because the truth of the matter – that she had very briefly appropriated an acquaintance’s horse for a brief jaunt across the countryside, that unceremoniously ended in a mud puddle – would not have served her nearly so well as the lie she had fabricated to cover her embarrassment – “I would say I could not believe you.”

“It is all true,” Clarke replied. They sat in silence for another long moment, processing what this could mean about Miss Bingley’s conceited companion, before a smirk spread across Murphy’s features.

“Well, there is one bright side to be considered,” he said, causing Clarke to throw him a quizzical look. “If she liked you, you would have to talk to her.”

The smart remark had the intended effect of sending Clarke entirely out of the melancholy which had been descending over her at the snub, and into a fit of giggles. She supposed it could not have been as terrible as all that, as Darcy was a gentlewoman, no matter how unpleasant she might be: if she had been aware that Clarke was within earshot, she most certainly would not have said all that she did, believing herself to be in the confidence of her friend. But the damage had been done: Murphy was an incurable gossip, and by the time of the ball’s closing, the story (and its several elaborate variations) was well-known among the assembly. Bingley was widely acknowledged to be agreeable, pleasant, good-humored, and handsome – everything a young heir should be, with no faults except for her taste in friends. Darcy, in contrast, was proud, arrogant, haughty, and entirely above her company, and not all her large estate in Darbyshire could have saved her from the disapproval of the entirety of Meryton society.

***

Before the ball was over, however, Clarke had to contend with a mortifying occurrence that threatened to put paid to any hope of Miss Bingley’s becoming attached to Raven: meetings, both formal and informal, between the gentlewoman and the entirety of the Bennet family. As for the first, it went reasonably well, although Clarke did not miss how Mr. Roan’s eyebrows rose each time a new member of the family was introduced. (“There are rather a lot of us,” she muttered to Raven after they had said their farewells, “but not so many as to invite such incredulity!”) Each of her siblings acquitted themselves tolerably with their bows and curtseys, and Clarke did not miss how Bingley’s eyes lingered on her older sister’s face, and how she let go of Raven’s hand just a few seconds longer after it was offered than she did with any of the others. Clarke’s mother managed to mumble a few pleasantries, and Clarke’s father did not offer too many, and she was delighted when, the introductions having run their course, Miss Bingley asked Raven, “I hope you can forgive my impertinence in assuming that no one else has asked for the favor of this next dance, Miss Bennet.”

“It is impertinence indeed,” Raven replied smartly, “but as it stands it is not currently incorrect impertinence.” Bingley took a moment to process the remark, but as soon as she had gleaned its meaning a brilliant smile spread across her face. She offered her hand, Raven took it, and they went down the dance together.

Clarke was very glad to see that they danced together several more times, and noted that Bingley appeared to be a very accomplished dancer, graceful and assured. She was even gladder to see that during the next dance – which Bingley could not have danced with Raven, for propriety’s sake – she asked Murphy to be her partner. Murphy accepted with decent grace, as he had been obliged to sit down rather longer than he might have liked, and Clarke’s heart ached for him. It was not easy to be a single second son of four-and-twenty, and despite his usual veneer of unconcern she knew that it weighed upon him heavily.

Although they did not appear to such great advantage together as did Raven and Bingley, it was clear that Murphy and Anya enjoyed one another’s company immensely. Clarke smiled to see them sharing a laugh at the end of their partnership, and thought she discerned, through the thicket of applause, Bingley saying, “You are a most excellent dancer, Mr. Lucas!”

“You’re too kind, Miss Bingley, I am certainly neither as talented nor as lovely as your previous partner,” Murphy replied, with only a hint of his habitually sardonic manner. Clarke was on her way to her friend to demand that he tell her every detail of their interaction, and to ask him if Bingley had spoken at all about Raven, when trouble entered stage left, just as Murphy exited stage right.

“How well you dance, Miss Bingley!” cried Mr. Bennet, seizing the gentlewoman’s arm. Clarke saw the flush in her father’s face and knew what it heralded: Mr. Bennet had a tendency to overindulge in punch at such occasions, and had exposed himself more than once with ridiculous comments. Eager to prevent such a gaffe, especially where Raven’s acquaintance with Miss Bingley was concerned, Clarke tried even harder to fight her way through the crowd. Her efforts were complicated by the fact that everyone was milling about, choosing new partners, and she almost wanted to shout at Bingley to get away when she heard the gentlewoman say, “Why, thank you! Your friend Mister Lucas is a most amusing young man!”

Clarke arrived just in time to hear her father’s answer: “Oh, indeed – it is such a shame he’s not more handsome!”

She felt her heart practically stop and looked about desperately for Murphy, hoping to confirm that he was not within earshot. She was gratified in that at least, but the worst of the damage was still to be remediated; Clarke stepped nearer, and took her father’s arm, warningly saying, “Papa, you forget yourself!”

But Mr. Bennet, courage bolstered and tongue loosened by Mr. Atom’s very strong punch, carried on: “Oh, Clarke would never admit it, but it’s true! Now my Raven is largely considered to be the beauty of the county –”

Clarke saw Raven’s face flush at the unwanted compliment, and her older sister reached out for her father’s hand, saying pleadingly, “Papa, please, no more –” but it was in vain.

Bingley listened with increasingly wide eyes as Mr. Bennet continued, “When she was but eighteen there was a gentleman so much in love with her that I was sure he would make her an offer.” Clarke realized two things in that moment that made her heart sink even further: first, that her father was attempting to emphasize Raven’s desirability by disclosing the episode of Finn, the conclusion of which would surely serve not only to have the opposite effect, but also to embarrass his elder daughter terribly; and second, that Miss Darcy had once again come near enough to listen. Clarke shut her eyes in brief protest at the injustice of it all, for if she could not come up with some way to stop it, her humiliation would soon be complete.

“Ultimately he did not ask for her hand,” Mr. Bennet continued, taking a sip of his drink which Raven unsuccessfully attempted to swat out of his hand, “as he failed to mention a previous engagement to a young woman in town, but he did write her some very pretty verses –”

“Which soon put paid to it,” Clarke said, grinning a little desperately. “I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love.”

To her immense surprise Darcy put in, “I thought poetry was the food of love.”  

Clarke was able to recover herself swiftly enough to reply, “Of a fine stout love it may be, but if it is only a vague inclination I am convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone-dead.”

To her right, she heard Raven snicker just a bit, and was glad to see her sister’s smirk. It was soon hidden behind her hand, but Clarke could also detect a hint of gratefulness to her, in having redirected their conversation.

Darcy was unaware of any of this, however; her eyes were curiously intent upon Clarke’s, and her voice curiously soft as she continued, “What do you recommend, then, to encourage affection?”

The answer sprang to Clarke’s tongue as quick and sharp as a spark: “Dancing,” and she could not help a wide smile as she continued, “even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”

Miss Darcy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide as she recognized her own words, but Clarke merely dropped into a curtsey. And then she and Raven both linked arms with their father’s and drew him away to find their mother, and hopefully escape the ball with their family’s reputation and dignity intact.

***

That night, her head still buzzing with punch and all that she had heard and seen at the ball, Clarke lifted the covers of the bed she shared with Raven and fixed her sister with a knowing smirk. “Well?”

Raven rolled her eyes and sighed exasperatedly, but she was still glowing with the excitement of the evening, and could not keep silent for long. “Miss Bingley is…all that a young gentlewoman ought to be,” she said at last, haltingly. “Sensible, good-humored, lively, and with such happy manners as I have never seen –”

“As well as handsome and conveniently rich,” Clarke cut in, giggling. Raven rolled her eyes, but could not keep from laughing as well.

“You know perfectly well that I do not consider such things,” she replied, when their hilarity had died down. “But…do you really think she liked me?”

Clarke arched an eyebrow. “Raven, she danced with you half the night and stared at you the rest. If she had not had such good breeding as to stop her, she would certainly have spent far more time with you than propriety warrants for a first meeting.”

Raven rolled her eyes once more, but could not help letting out a giggle of her own, eyes squeezed shut. Clarke felt her heart warm to witness her sister’s happiness, for although she had not said it, she was very certain that Raven was very much taken with Miss Bingley. Her appearance, her manners, the compliment paid her by dancing so many dances together – she knew that she must not think of such things, as early as it was in their acquaintance, but she could not help but hope that Raven might at last have met her match.

“It is far too early to tell what sort of a person she is, no matter how agreeable she might have seemed,” Raven said at last, and then her eyes narrowed. “And there is the matter of her friend.”

“Who, Miss Darcy?” Clarke asked, affecting unconcern even as the soft green gaze and haughty mien of the other gentlewoman rose to her mind with perfect clarity.

“Who else?” Raven said impatiently. “I still can’t believe what she said about you! If I had been there…”

“It is lucky that you weren’t!” Clarke said, grinning affectionately at her sister’s quick temper. “I’m certain you would have cut her to ribbons, and Miss Bingley would have been short one friend – something I doubt would please her, no matter how disagreeable Miss Darcy might be! Still,” she said, biting her lip, “it is no matter. I doubt we shall ever speak again.”

Raven nodded, but the seriousness of the moment could not last. They were still too flushed with the excellent amusements of the ball, and with the possibilities that had appeared on the horizon with the advent of Miss Bingley, to be somber for long – a fact that, Clarke was sure, Miss Darcy would find it incumbent upon her to criticize, if she were to observe them, but she could not bring herself to care. Raven was, for the first time in far too many months,  _ happy  _ – purely happy in and of herself. And although her sister had said nothing of her feelings on the gentlewoman, it told Clarke more than enough to know that in time, Miss Bingley could truly grow to mean something to Raven.

***

“I must declare, I have not met pleasanter people nor danced with prettier girls in my entire life!” Anya Bingley said, throwing herself onto a couch with a happy sigh. Lexa and Roan followed her into the sitting room with a good deal more decorum, although it was more force of habit on Darcy’s part, and more the tail end of a prolonged display on Roan’s.

The younger Bingley took note of the exhilarated flush on his older sibling’s cheeks, and the somber expression on Darcy’s face as she studied Anya. “I wager I know what you are thinking of, Miss Darcy,” he remarked, sidling up to the gentlewoman.

“I highly doubt it,” was the response, and Roan was forced to consider just how firm Darcy could be even when she was clearly preoccupied with worry.

“I believe we may be thinking the same thing,” he said in a low voice, eager to draw Lexa into confidence. At this Lexa turned, frowning.

“I should certainly hope not.”

Unsure what to make of this statement, and the dark, almost possessive look on his sister’s friend’s brow, Roan soldiered on. “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner, and in such society; and I assure you that I am of precisely the same opinion. I have never been so annoyed in my life! There is nothing of fashion or beauty, and very little of wit to be found among any of them – aside from Miss Bennet, of course. I am sure we can allow that she is quite pretty, and I know that Anya was impressed with her humor, though she does so love a good joke that it is not at all a true measure of wit – but the rest of her family could not show their faces among anyone in town after such a performance as they gave. The noise, the insipidity, the self-importance of these people – what I would not give to hear your strictures on them!”

The invitation was plain in Roan’s words and tone, but instead of dispensing precisely the sort of cutting commentary he was eager to hear, Lexa’s voice turned soft. “Your conjecture is entirely wrong, I assure you,” she said, and now it was Roan’s turn to frown. There was a note in the gentlewoman’s voice that, despite her long acquaintance with his sister, and therefore himself, he had yet to hear – a quiet, almost longing quality, as though Lexa were missing someone. But he was not so perceptive as to discern that – instead, he could only note that Miss Darcy was acting quite oddly, and imagined that someone had given her some offense.

“Do tell me, I beg you,” he said, eager for more gossip than the ample amount he could provide.

“I…have been thinking of the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow,” Lexa said quietly, after a long, meditative pause.

Roan found himself quite taken aback, for indeed this was not at all what he had expected to hear. He was prepared for Darcy to be outraged, and to demand a return to London at once (which he would have regretted, despite his earlier declaration, as he could see his way to several more evenings spent deriving amusement at the expense of the people of Meryton); or for her to be subdued, concerned for his sister’s welfare when surrounded by so many inappropriate matches. But the idea that Darcy – the incomparable, unreproachable, unapproachable Darcy! – might have fixed upon someone herself was utterly incomprehensible to him.

But Roan was a relatively simple creature, of simple tastes and standard habits, so he fell back upon a typical response: sarcasm. “Ah! And which of the fine ladies might have such jewels glittering in her skull as to be able to catch your attention?” he asked Miss Darcy, before bracing himself for a withering look.

Instead, Lexa’s attention seemed fixed upon something beyond the window, and she replied with an absentness that had something of surprise: “Miss Clarke Bennet.”

At the utterance of Clarke’s family name, Anya, who had appeared to be drowsing upon the sofa, sat up with a start. “Are you speaking of Miss Bennet?” she cried, turning to her friend. “Is she not the most beautiful creature you have ever seen? I think I might be half in love already!”

At this declaration, Lexa appeared to regain her composure, and fixed her friend with a hard look. “So you have said. But as long as we are repeating ourselves, Bingley, I had better warn you that as pleasant as your partner may have been, and as enjoyable as you may have found the keenness of her wit, you had better be cautious with giving away your affections so freely.”

“You’re one to talk, Darcy,” said Anya, smirking, with the air of a huntress finally cornering her prey. “I haven’t heard you talk half so much about a girl since I’ve known you, as you’ve said about Miss Clarke’s ‘fine eyes.’”

Roan turned just in time to see color rising to Darcy’s cheeks, and could not hold in a guffaw. “Indeed, I am all astonishment! How long has she been such a favorite? And when are we to be wishing you joy?”

Lexa let out a huff, folding her arms. “I knew you would be wishing me joy. A second’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, and from love to matrimony, in a moment.”

“Hark at her, Roan!” Anya crowed, leaping up from the couch and striding over to examine her friend’s face more closely. “If she is so serious about it, I do declare we must consider the matter settled!”

But Darcy had regained her composure, and merely listened unconcernedly as the siblings continued their taunts. Finding in her a less than easy target, they soon fell to bickering with one another, as was their wont, and Darcy was left to return to her ruminations on the precise and piercing shade of Miss Clarke Bennet’s fine eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized that I totally forgot to post this - my Patrons have had it for ages! As per usual, if you're interested in reading this fic a week early, or getting any number of other goodies that my Patrons enjoy, check out my tumblr (n1ghtwr1ter.tumblr.com) for more information. And also per usual, please let me know what you think of the chapter in the comments and on tumblr!

The ball at which Anya Bingley and her friends made their first appearance was the start of the social season at Meryton – hardly much of one when compared with the season in London, a fact which Roan never failed to remark upon whenever he was given the chance, but as the weather was most conducive to going out and seeking company, so did the residents of the county gather to do just that. As Miss Bingley appeared determined to avail herself of the opportunities for society that Meryton had to offer, and as Jasper and Octavia had declared (loudly, and often) that they should rather die than miss a ball, there were plenty of opportunities for Clarke and Raven to see Anya, Mr. Bingley, and, unfortunately, Lexa Darcy.

Clarke, for her part, would have been happy to avoid Miss Darcy altogether, and would have thought that the gentlewoman might have felt similarly, but somehow they kept meeting. Darcy’s distaste for such events was clear, as evidenced by her habit of standing in the corner and only speaking when spoken to, preferring, instead of dancing, to simply watch the assembly with her large, brilliantly green, and somewhat sad-looking eyes. Not that Clarke would have noticed anything in particular about her eyes, except that she found herself rather often to be the object of their notice. She could not imagine why this should be so, she remarked to Murphy in one of these instances, except that Miss Darcy must reserve a special contempt for her, and was taking her entertainment in waiting to see whether Clarke might commit a gaffe or social faux pas. As disconcerting as it was to be the object of such scrutiny, however, she determined to enjoy herself regardless, and set herself to the task with a sort of grim determination to be merry.

There was another factor which contributed to the necessity of seeing Miss Lexa Darcy, one with which Clarke was not at all unhappy: Raven and Miss Bingley appeared to be growing more familiar with one another by the minute. Her sister affected unconcern when Octavia asked teasingly if she was to see Miss Bingley at the ball tonight, and she gave little outward appearance of caring whether that gentlewoman spent any time in her company at all, but despite her show of nonchalance they invariably managed to find one another within moments of their arrival at whatever event required their attendance. This meant, of course, that Clarke was forced far more often than she might like into the presence of Miss Bingley’s friend, who was entirely disagreeable; and her brother, who, despite his easy manners and careless social grace, always gave Clarke the impression that he was laughing at some private joke. But Bingley herself was very agreeable, and she made Raven laugh – and that was worth far more to Clarke than the annoyance of Roan and Darcy’s company.

As the weeks passed, and as the whirl of balls and parties continued, Raven and Anya continued to spend more and more time together – indeed, nearly enough so as to be indecent. But Raven was circumspect enough to stay just on the correct side of propriety, only dancing two dances together with Bingley before entreating her to find another partner, and making certain to pay enough respect to her friends and family as to only make Clarke feel a  _ little _ abandoned. The gossip about them, therefore, was not that they were far too much in one another’s company, but that they should soon be even more so – it was widely considered a near certainty, according to Murphy’s report, that Bingley should make Raven an offer of marriage before the year was out.

Her father was beside himself, of course, making little references and asides to all of their friends about “impending festivities” and “seeing one of my girls settled – but of course I cannot say with whom, nothing is decided yet, but I do not doubt that we shall have an announcement to make before the year is out…” For all that he was determined not to say any more, however, he could not seem to stop discussing it. Clarke knew that Mr. Bennet’s loose tongue was terribly embarrassing to Raven, and could not but present the rest of their family in a poor light, but no matter how many times she enjoined him to keep silent about things that were not yet certain, out of fear that they might never be, he could not hold his tongue when he had even the slightest bit of wine to hand.

Her father was not alone in his impropriety, however: it seemed that her family were all determined, in their own ways, to expose themselves to general censure. At a card-party hosted by Sir William and Lady Lucas, Octavia and Jasper caused quite the scene by getting into a row over which of them Lieutenant Monroe had smiled at; by the time Clarke and Raven had managed to separate them and calm them down, it became very clear that the officer had been smiling at neither of them, but a Miss Harper, who returned the expression with a blush. Clarke could not help but notice Miss Darcy lurking at the edges of the scene – which would not be remarkable, as it attracted quite a bit of attention, except for the fact that she had been seeing Miss Darcy everywhere, and was certain that the gentlewoman was merely looking for something to disapprove of.

“You are being overtaken by paranoia on the matter,” Raven had said, when she expressed these concerns, but Clarke was not convinced. Miss Darcy’s eyes always seemed to be on her; she could not escape the soft yet piercing green gaze.

Then there had been the moment when Monty had nearly started a stampede at a ball at Mr. Miller’s home when something small yet explosive fell out of his pocket. There had been a stunning flash, a loud bang, and a puff of ill-smelling smoke, which had caused a general clamor. Clarke had felt her heart sink in her chest and had fought her way through the press of bodies attempting to escape the “bomb,” as she heard echoed by many panicked voices, to see Monty standing in the middle of the cloud, coughing and turning redder by the moment. But by the time she reached him, young Master Nathan, Mr. Miller’s heir, had gotten through to him and was leading him over to the refreshments, speaking in a soothing tone. Clarke had grinned a little to see her youngest sibling’s face: eager and mortified all at once. So perhaps that had not been all bad.

But there were yet other incidents, fueled by high spirits of the personal kind and too many of the liquid, enough so that if she had not seen the way Raven and Miss Bingley were beginning to look at each other, she would have despaired of there ever being a match. And yet through all of these mishaps and moments of poor behavior, they seemed to be growing closer than ever. Raven even made an effort to get along reasonably well with Roan, and on one brisk morning in very early autumn, it appeared to have paid off.

“A letter for you, Miss Bennet, from Netherfield Hall,” Mary announced as they were all taking breakfast one morning. A sense of torpor had settled over the table, as they had all returned rather late the previous night and were nursing various complaints of the head and stomach, but everyone in the room sat bolt upright at the serving girl’s words, and turned their attention to Raven.  

It was as though the air had all gone out of the room; Clarke thought she could have heard a pin drop. And then Mr. Bennet exclaimed, “Praise the Lord; we are saved!”

The three younger Bennets erupted into a chorus of nervous giggles, and Clarke couldn’t keep from joining them, but her gaze remained upon Raven. Her sister was still staring at the letter with wide eyes, but her face was otherwise inscrutable – Clarke could not have said whether she was happy, or frightened, or merely astonished at having a letter from Mr. Bingley so early in the morning after they had all gone to bed so late the previous night. Raven’s expression, or lack thereof, called to Clarke’s mind something that Murphy had mentioned not long ago, after seeing Raven with Miss Bingley at a card party – that while it was clear to those who knew her well that she liked Miss Bingley very much, Raven’s habitual reticence and guardedness where her feelings were concerned might conceal that preference from its object. “Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly,” Murphy had said, “but she may never do more than like her, if she does not help her on.”

“But she  _ does _ help Bingley on,” Clarke had protested, “as much as her nature and demeanor will allow! You know her history, Murphy – she is careful with her heart, but I truly do believe that if all continues between them as it has been, she may be prepared to give it if Miss Bingley should ask.”

“But she does not know Raven as we do,” Murphy had said, “and cannot know that a smile from her is like to a laugh from someone else, and a laugh may as well be a kiss! No, she had better show her affections a little more clearly, or she may lose her chance of seeing them returned once and for all.”

Clarke had laughed at him then, but Murphy’s words were still ringing in her ears as Mr. Bennet urged her sister to “Go on, then, open it!” With trembling fingers, Raven took the letter opener held out to her by Mary and slit the seal.

“It is from Mr. Roan Bingley,” she said, and even her carefully cultivated attitude of unconcern could not conceal the excitement in her voice, or the happy glow that had lit up her eyes as they darted over the page. “He has invited me to dine with him at Netherfield this evening.”

Excited gasps came from Octavia, Jasper, and Mr. Bennet. Raven had now recovered enough from her shock to share a dry look with Clarke at their enthusiasm, but she returned to the letter with undisguised glee at her father’s urging: “Go on, go on, surely that cannot be all that it says!”

Raven’s face fell as she read the next sentence: “His sister will be dining out.”

Mr. Bennet drew back in astonishment. “Dining out? What can she mean by that?”

“May I take the carriage, Papa?” Raven asked, and Clarke was heartened to see that she appeared undaunted, apparently encouraged to put up a good front. Her father’s glee, however, had clearly soured, and he reached across the table to snatch the letter from Raven’s hands.

“It is too far to walk,” Clarke said, by way of bolstering her sister’s request. Netherfield was on the far side of Meryton, and there was no way to be certain of arriving there at any decent hour, in any fit state to dine with the brother of such an important acquaintance – for while it was not Roan whom Raven liked so well, his sister would surely take his opinion of her into account when making her decision. Perhaps, Clarke allowed herself to hope, this was an audition of sorts – Mr. Bingley was hoping to take Raven’s measure, in order to deliver a final verdict as to whether his sister ought to make her an offer.

Clarke’s father clearly did not think similarly, however; the frown on his face made it plain that he considered Miss Bingley’s dining anywhere besides Raven’s presence to be a slight. After a few moments of consideration, Mr. Bennet looked up. “Nonsense,” he said decidedly, “you’ll go on horseback.”

Clarke and Raven let out twin exclamations of astonishment:  _ “Horseback?” _

But their father was not to be dissuaded. No matter how Clarke might protest that Raven was not a strong rider, and it was quite a long journey; and no matter how Raven might point out that it would be impossible to make a good showing even if she arrived at Netherfield without incident – what could they think of her, arriving on horseback as though they had not a carriage to lend to the purpose?  – Mr. Bennet was firm. Raven would take one of the horses in case their mother had sudden need of the carriage – entirely unlikely, Mrs. Bennet mumbled from behind the medical gazette she was reading, but she was roundly ignored. “You had better get started at once,” he said at last, over their protests, and with a sigh Raven was forced to acquiesce.

The day was clear when Clarke sent her off on Rocket, the tamest and gentlest of their horses, with wishes of “good luck!” and “be careful!” But not an hour had passed when clouds began to roll across the sky, and a breeze picked up, heavy with the smell of rain. Clarke watched with a sinking heart as the first drops began to fall. Soon enough they had become a steady torrent, and there was yet no chance that Raven could have reached Netherfield, even if her horse had somehow grown wings.

“I hope you’re happy,” she said to her father, who was also eyeing the window even as he was pretending at mending a pair of stockings. “Raven will probably have caught her death out there.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Bennet said, looking far too satisfied for someone who faced his eldest daughter’s imminent demise. “But she will have to stay the night – exactly as I predicted.”

“Good Lord,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed as she passed through the room on the way to her study, “your skills in the art of matrimony are positively occult.”

Clarke grinned. “Much as he might like to, I don’t think Papa can take credit for making it rain.”

Mr. Bennet declined to comment, only tutted at the both of them; but a small smile continued to tug at his lips.

***

Whether it was Mr. Bennet who had brought the rain, or merely the unpredictable climate of the season, it was as Clarke’s father had planned: instead of Raven returning home that night, a servant came from Netherfield Park with a letter from her instead. It was addressed to their mother but Clarke tore it open anyway, pausing only to note the unusually shaky penmanship, before reading its contents aloud to her audience – its intended recipient having ambled in at the growing animation of her voice.

_ “My kind friends will not hear of me returning home until I am better, although it is hard to complain as they have taken the most splendid care of me. Mr. Roan is attentive and kind, offering to fetch me glasses of water or bowls of hot porridge, but Miss Bingley has hardly left my side.”  _ Here Clarke was obliged to stop, as she was interrupted by furious tittering from her younger siblings. She silenced them with a glare, but they continued to whisper of just how lucky Raven was to be the object of Miss Bingley’s gallantry.

_“They have both been so occupied in entertaining me with stories of their life in London that when Mr. Jackson arrived to look in on me, he was obliged to tell them to desist so that I might rest. I must beg you not to worry, as there is nothing much the matter with me excepting a fever, a sore throat, and a headache. Mr. Jackson_ _says that as long as I take plenty of rest and eat his prescribed diet, I should be well in little time at all.”_ Clarke let the letter drop into her lap and looked up at her father.

“This is ridiculous!”

Before Mr. Bennet could offer a rejoinder, Mrs. Bennet said drily, “If Raven does die, it shall be a comfort to you, my dear, to know that it was in pursuit of Miss Bingley.”

Mr. Bennet slammed his knitting needles to the table in a huff. “People do not die of colds!” And yet Clarke was satisfied to see a line of worry appearing in his brow as he snapped at Monty and Jasper to hurry up with their own mending lest they be at it all morning.

Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, when she considered her sister’s character: ever since they were children, Raven had been prone to minimizing the seriousness of her injuries and illnesses. She was inclined to be stoic, and she hated having fusses made over her – and if the Bingleys were being half so attentive as the letter had suggested, Raven must be close to madness with the need for some quiet and solitude.

“I must go to Netherfield at once,” Clarke said, mind made up, and rose to make ready before her father could tell her not to be ridiculous.

It turned out that Clarke could not have the carriage either, as her mother actually did need it for a journey into Meryton. She began reluctantly to see if she could reschedule her meeting, but Clarke wouldn’t hear of it, and announced that she would walk – it was a brisk day, but that would be refreshing, and if she set off right away she was sure to make Netherfield well before lunchtime.

Mr. Bennet was of the opinion that she must have lost her reason, but Mrs. Bennet had already given her blessing, and Clarke was determined. And so she put on sturdier boots and a thick cloak in anticipation of the damp, and tied her hair up under the bonnet which she thought would suffer least from the aftermath of the previous night’s weather, her father hissing at her all the while that she was being incredibly silly even to think of  _ walking,  _ the country was all over mud, and she would be in no fit state to be seen by the likes of Miss Bingley and her brother and –

“I shall be fit to see my sister, which is my only object,” Clarke said firmly. “I should be more embarrassed, if I were Raven, to have a family who is too concerned with appearances to risk a little mud in order to visit my sickbed.” That chastened her father sufficiently to shut him up for long enough for Clarke to escape, and she was out the door and halfway down the lane before he called after her to be careful.

Despite the storm’s having blown itself out before dawn, the day was still wet, windy, and wild. Disdaining the road that would lead her first to Meryton, and then to Netherfield, Clarke struck out cross-country, her steps taking her over stiles and through hedges and across fields that had become bogs, all under a sky that was racing with heavy clouds. Despite the muck adding a touch of extra difficulty to her passage, sucking at her boots and seeking to twist her ankles, she made good progress. She was an excellent walker, and she had traversed this familiar terrain many times throughout her life, occasionally in worse weather than this.

Still, as swiftly as the fallow farmland and tangled meadows gave way to the neatly manicured groves and gardens of Netherfield, it was not soon enough for Clarke. She was impatient to see her sister and to reassure herself that Raven truly was in a way to recover; for all her father’s insistence that people did not die of such trifles as colds, and for her own knowledge that Raven was a good bit heartier than some of the horses they’d owned over the years, she knew of too many families who had lost loved ones to ailments that had also, at some point, been called trifling.

When she arrived at the door to the hall and announced herself, she had the satisfaction of giving the housekeeper a good start. But once she had blinked enough times to verify that she was, in fact, Miss Bennet and not some ragamuffin imposter, she informed Clarke that the ladies and gentleman of the house were still taking their breakfast.

Clarke would have liked nothing better than to demand to be taken to her sister, but she knew that she could only compound the impropriety of turning up here unannounced in such a disheveled state by not at least putting in an appearance. And so she asked that she be presented to them, taking the opportunity of several mirrors she passed on the walls to recognize the truly dreadful disorder of her hair and to determine that there was nothing she would be able to do about it before she had to face the Bingleys.

“Good lord, Miss Clarke, did you walk here?” Roan drawled, after she had been announced and ushered into the drawing room where he and Darcy were taking breakfast. There was no sign of his sister except for a cup of something and a half-eaten pastry at an empty place.

As Clarke was opening her mouth to respond, Darcy evidently remembered her manners and stood abruptly, her chair making an awkward sound against the floor, before bowing to Clarke rather more deeply than the situation required. Feeling vaguely ridiculous, she made an attempt at a curtsey, acutely conscious of the way her sodden skirt dragged against her ankles. That farce dispensed with, Clarke returned her attention to Roan, noticing that his perpetual half-smirk had deepened to something approaching self-satisfaction.

“I did,” she said cheerfully, refusing to allow herself to be bothered by the way his eyes kept flicking to her mud-spattered hem. Silence reigned in the room for an absurd length of time, as Roan struggled to find a rejoinder – stymied, she thought, by her lack of embarrassment. It was rather more difficult to ignore the way Darcy’s eyes rested upon her – as though she had seen something astounding, but could not yet make herself look away.  _ Probably taking inventory of my flaws and deciding upon how to best critique them,  _ Clarke thought, and then smiled brightly into the awkwardness.

“I’m so sorry – how is my sister?”

She expected a response from Roan – after all, it had ostensibly been at his request that Raven had come to Netherfield – but before he could answer Darcy blurted out, “She’s upstairs.” Clarke bit her tongue over a sharp reminder that that did not actually answer her question.

The silence stretched on, and while Clarke greatly enjoyed the sight of Darcy trying not to fidget, she was eventually obliged to ask, “Might I see her?”

By now, Roan had recovered himself enough to say with decent grace, “Of course. I’ll have Collins show you to her room.”

Clarke curtseyed gratefully, the other two bowed, and she prepared to follow the servant who had brought her when Roan said, “I believe that my sister is still with her.” Now Clarke’s smile was genuine as she thanked him for the knowledge, and proceeded to leave the room in search of Raven.

***

When Clarke entered the room in which her sister was being housed, she found Raven propped up by a truly decadent amount of pillows, in close conversation with Miss Bingley, who was seated by her bedside. Even though the servant knocked on the door before opening it to let her in, neither of them looked up. Their voices were low and their eyes locked together, and Clarke suspected that she could have set off one of Monty’s flashbangs and they wouldn’t have noticed anything except one another. It made her smile to herself to see the looks on their faces, even though it hurt her heart a little, for she could not see the two of them now without being reminded of the pain that Raven had felt over Finn.

Eventually, however, she grew to feel a little awkward, intruding upon what was clearly a private conversation, and cleared her throat rather loudly. Anya jumped half a foot in the air before springing to her feet, and turned with a brilliant and entirely unconvincing smile on her face. “Miss Clarke, my apologies! I have just been trying to convince Miss Bennet to try and take a little breakfast, but to no avail – perhaps you shall have some better luck.”

Clarke made a face at her sister, who was staring at her with widened eyes. “That is something I very much doubt, Miss Bingley,” she said, laughter in her voice. “Attempting to convince my sister to do anything she does not wish to do herself is entirely futile.”

Raven scowled. “Are not people supposed to be kind to those who are ill?”

To Clarke’s surprise and delight, Bingley snorted. “As I recall, it took Roan and me half of yesterday to get you to admit that you are indeed ill!”

Clarke couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Well, it seems she is in excellent hands with you, as it would have taken me at least another half a day to achieve the same thing.”

Raven groaned. “If you are just here to torment me, you may go away.”

“No,  _ I  _ shall go, and give you your privacy,” Miss Bingley insisted, shaking her head. “But please do not hesitate to call upon me if you should need anything at all.” That last remark was directed to Clarke, but her eyes remained upon Raven, who gave her a sleepy smile. “Rest well.”

When the door had shut behind her, Clarke turned to her sister, allowing a grin to spread across her face. “It seems to be going well here, does it not?”

Raven pulled a pillow over her head, but not before Clarke caught a glimpse of the blush that was coloring her cheeks. “They have been so very kind, but I feel so dreadful about imposing on their hospitality.”

Clarke smirked as she took up Bingley’s abandoned seat next to her sister. “Nonsense; I am not sure who is happier about you being here – Papa or Miss Bingley!”

Removing the pillow, Raven sighed, and while Clarke could see happiness upon her face she could see exhaustion upon it also. In a wearied voice, she related the events of the time since her letter had been received: she had slept ill, and received another visit from the doctor, who had looked upon her progress with some concern and had declared that she must not think of attempting to return home. Raven expressed that last with some chagrin, but not as much, Clarke thought, as she might ordinarily have done; indeed, it seemed to her that there was some secret smile in her voice every time she spoke of the attentions Miss Bingley had paid her, of something Miss Bingley had said or done.

“I hope that Miss Bingley is allowing you your rest,” Clarke said, in gently mocking tones, “or you shall never come home to us. Although perhaps that is what she wants.”

“Not at all!” Raven protested drowsily, missing her sister’s teasing in her delirium. “She wants nothing more than to see me well.” Knowing that Raven was ordinarily quick-witted, Clarke felt her forehead with some concern, and found it hot.

“If you are to accede to her wishes, you must try to rest,” she said gently, drawing the covers over her sister once more. Despite Raven’s feeble protests that she was not tired, she was asleep within moments.

After watching over her sister for a little while to make certain that she was resting easily, Clarke went in search of the head of the house. She begged for Miss Bingley’s forgiveness, but informed her that she thought it of the utmost importance that she be allowed to stay and care for Raven until she was well enough to return home. She hated very much to be an inconvenience, but hoped that Miss Bingley would indulge her in a sister’s worry, and hoped that her diligence in attending to Raven’s welfare would allow Miss Bingley and her brother to return to more pleasant pursuits.

Bingley, in her turn, was adamant that Clarke was not an inconvenience, and neither was her sister; she was happy to have both of them there, and offered Clarke the use of the room next door to Raven’s for as long as she liked. Clarke was quite taken by the ease and graciousness of Miss Bingley’s manners, and thanked her profusely, then asked if she might trouble her for pen and paper, that she might write to her father to inform him of her decision, and ask him to send along enough of her wardrobe that she might have something to wear for the duration of her stay. Bingley obliged, and offered to make certain that the letter was sent to Longbourne the moment it was finished; although she delayed that moment by some time, because she insisted on sitting by Clarke as she wrote and peppering her with questions about her sister.

Eventually that business was dispensed with, however, and Clarke was invited to tidy herself up as best she could and join the Bingleys and Darcy for lunch. Raven was not well enough at this point to leave bed, and Clarke could not imagine how she could possibly tidy up much at all, but she could not find it within herself to refuse. Bingley was doing a very good impression of well-mannered disinterest, but Clarke fancied she knew the woman well enough by now to see through it to the eagerness beneath, and while she found her other dining companions rather more objectionable to some degree, she thought they must be forced to behave in Bingley’s presence.

So, at a quarter past noon, Clarke descended to Netherfield’s dining room – a much grander sight than any she habitually visited – and joined Lexa Darcy, and Anya and Roan Bingley, at the table. Their conversation was somewhat less lively than Clarke might have expected given what she knew of the character of her host, but she supposed that was not wholly unexpected. However, Bingley made a strong effort to keep the conversation up, and to draw her out on a variety of subjects, and while Clarke found that their opinions did not often line up when it came to preferred activities, it was quite pleasant to hear the heir speak of her love of hunting and gaming with such animation.

Clarke queried Miss Bingley as to her preference of books, and she admitted with a sheepish air that she did not read nearly so much as she ought. “I find it quite hard to sit to a book for very long,” she said, “although I do love a good story – but my neglect of them is made only more criminal by the fact that Netherfield possesses a very fine library.”

Clarke’s interest was piqued, and it was soon agreed among the party that they should visit the library after their meal had concluded, and pass the afternoon in the reading room adjacent. Miss Bingley admitted that, as the rain had resumed, there was no sense in her or Darcy’s keeping their appointment to go hunting, and would therefore be obliged to spend their time in a similar manner.

“I can’t help but note, Anya, that you seem rather less disappointed in that determination than you might otherwise be,” Roan said, darting his eyes slyly at his sister. “I have often known you to throw yourself upon the sofa and declare that you shall soon die if you can’t go out, so this is quite the change in character. Whatever can the reason be?”

Clarke was delighted to see Bingley flush at her brother’s teasing, but even more delighted to hear her rejoinder: “Perhaps I am growing up, Roan – an ailment that has never seemed to trouble  _ you.” _

“Now children, don’t fight,” Darcy said with an air of inattention, as though she were a parent absentmindedly adjudicating the squabbles of a pair of siblings with one eye on the newspaper. Clarke surprised herself by laughing, and then it was her turn to blush as Darcy’s gaze landed upon her immediately. She found her eyes locked with Miss Darcy’s, and was unable, for a long moment, to look away. Clarke couldn’t help but attempt to discern what was in them, but aside from a certain startlement –  _ what, is she so unused to hearing people laugh in her presence?  _ – they were as inscrutable as ever. To her surprise, it was Miss Darcy who looked away first. A warm flush passed through her, and she felt at once emboldened and wary.

Their meal passed with little more excitement than that, and they adjourned to the library. Clarke was delighted to find that Miss Bingley’s assessment of her collection was correct: there were quite a few favorite volumes, and quite a few more that she had not yet read. She selected one and settled herself on the sofa that seemed to have the highest ratio of comfort to fashion in the room, musing to herself that Raven had better get married to Miss Bingley soon, so that she might have all the more time to raid the library. Hiding her smirk behind her hand, she opened her book and set about immersing herself in its pages.

To her annoyance, however, she found her amusement disrupted by the amusements of her companions: chiefly, Mr. Roan. He had at first attempted an air of studiousness, selecting one of the largest and thickest volumes on the shelves, but upon realizing that his studiousness was not being observed by anybody and could not therefore be praised, soon abandoned the pretense. He proceeded to try and bother his sister, who was sitting at the window and sighing at the rain, evidently with a frustrated desire to go out shooting; but, seeing that Miss Bingley was in one of her rare dour moods and gave him only perfunctory answers, he soon turned his attentions to Miss Darcy, who was writing a letter.

“How quickly you write, Miss Darcy, and with such fine penmanship!”

“You are mistaken,” Darcy replied, not bothering to look up. “I write rather slowly.”

Roan proceeded to compliment her on every aspect of the missive: the neatness of the lettering, the evenness of the lines, and the length of the letter – all of which were taken by Miss Darcy with complete unconcern. Evidently unsatisfied with the response he was receiving, Roan changed tacks. Unfortunately, his change in subject was accompanied by a rise in volume, which meant that Clarke’s attempts at paying attention to anything other than Roan were utterly frustrated. She could not imagine that his purpose could be anything other than to make himself the center of attention, and she glared at his back as he turned.

“Do give my regards to your brother, Miss Darcy,” Roan said. “It has been far too long since I’ve seen him, and I was entirely devastated when I learned that he was not to be joining us on our country adventure.” At that last affectation, Clarke was very hard-put not to snort, but she managed to rein herself in by dint of her curiosity about Darcy’s brother.

“I have already added your regards, by your request,” Darcy said, a furrow appearing in her brow. Clarke watched it carefully despite herself; it was the first indication Darcy had given that she was anything but utterly inattentive to Mr. Bingley’s blandishments. Roan did not appear to notice.

“I do dote upon him,” he drawled, circling the table on which Darcy wrote. “I was entirely in raptures at seeing his beautiful little design for a table.”

“I beg your leave to defer your raptures until I write again,” the gentlewoman said, her words grown clipped. “At present I have not room to do them justice.”

Roan scowled at having been so rebuffed, and Clarke found herself yet again hiding a smirk behind her hand. Darcy was saved from any censure she might have received at Mr. Bingley’s hands by his sister’s remark:

“I think it’s amazing that you seconds are so accomplished.”

“Whatever do you mean, Anya?” Roan demanded, turning his ire on his sister.

“Well, you all paint tables and play the piano and embroider cushions,” Miss Bingley said, and Clarke couldn’t help smiling at the sincerity of her remarks. “I never heard of a young second that people did not say they were accomplished.”

“Indeed, the word is applied too liberally,” Darcy said unexpectedly, not looking up from her letter. “I cannot boast of knowing half a dozen seconds in all my acquaintance that are truly accomplished.”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed at her.  _ I can’t imagine that there are too many seconds willing to make your acquaintance for long enough for you to determine whether or not they are accomplished, given your manners. _

“Nor I, to be sure,” Roan cut in swiftly, eager to agree with Darcy upon something. His admiration of Darcy was an odd sort, Clarke had come to realize, crossing somewhere between hero-worship and distaste. It was as though he could not help admiring Darcy for all that she was, and that he could not himself be, but could also not escape resenting her for it.

“Goodness, you must comprehend a great deal in the idea,” Clarke said, before she could help herself. Darcy looked up at her so abruptly that Clarke sucked in a breath, to be fixed so suddenly with that piercing green gaze.

“I do,” she said, but before she could go on, Roan, who apparently thought that Clarke had been addressing him, began to declaim his own opinion.

“Absolutely. They must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages to deserve the word,” he said, with an air of satisfaction that suggested that  _ he  _ possessed all of these virtues, and thus deserved Darcy’s surely hard-earned title of  _ accomplished.  _ While he kept his gaze fixed upon those who were explicitly paying attention, Clarke did not miss how he glanced down at Miss Darcy, who had gone back to her letter.

Drawing himself up, Roan continued, “And something in their air, and manner of walking,” and here he began to stride about the room, as though to demonstrate. Darcy ignored him in favor of continuing her missive.

“And of course they must improve their mind, by extensive reading,” she said, eyes darting to the book in Clarke’s lap.  Uncertain as to whether that pointed comment had been issued with sarcasm or sincerity, Clarke felt heat rise to her cheeks, and experienced the absurd urge to hide the volume beneath her skirts. Instead, she clapped it shut.

“I’m no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished seconds,” she said, eager to hide her odd reaction to Darcy’s look with a sudden flare of temper. “I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”

Darcy looked up at her quite sharply. “Are you so severe on your own class?”

“I never saw such a second,” Clarke replied, unable to rein in her grin at the color that flared in Miss Darcy’s cheeks. “They would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.”

Her remarks had largely been intended to put a pin in Roan’s ego, as Miss Bingley clearly understood, if her guffaw was any indication – and yet Clarke was not afforded the pleasure of being able to observe their reaction in their intended recipient. Her eyes remained caught with Miss Darcy’s, her smile slowly fading under the weight of the gentlewoman’s regard. She could not have said what emotions were to be found in the depths of that gaze, so like a deep forest of pine that she could almost believe herself to be getting lost in them.

“Miss Clarke, let us take a turn about the room,” Roan said smoothly, startling her out of her trance. Before she knew it, she was being drawn up, her arm tucked into Roan’s, and they had begun to slowly circle the small library. “It’s refreshing, is it not, after sitting so long in one attitude?”

Miss Bennet was not entirely certain how to respond to the ridiculousness of this statement, especially when directed at herself, who had so recently made a three-mile journey in nasty weather. And yet, she noted, Mr. Roan’s attention was yet again on Miss Darcy, who had by now returned to her letter. “It is a small kind of accomplishment, I suppose,” Clarke said, grinning to herself with little expectation of her remark being paid much attention.

As she had imagined it soon would, Mr. Bingley’s path soon diverged from the outer circle of the room to cross the floor, taking them closer to the table at which Darcy continued to write. “Will you not join us, Miss Darcy?” he drawled when they drew near. Clarke did not miss the silent huff that the gentlewoman let out at this latest interruption.

“You can only have two motives, Roan, and I should only interfere with either,” she said in a clipped tone.

“What can she mean?” Mr. Bingley asked Clarke, giving the other second a sly glance. Miss Bennet was entirely uninterested in the performance that he was orchestrating, and yet she knew that she would have no peace until she played her assigned role.

“The surest way of disappointing her will be to ask her nothing about it,” she said, knowing full well that her advice would be ignored.

“But do tell us, Miss Darcy,” said Roan, on cue.

Darcy set down her pen a little more sharply than was warranted, and turned to let her eyes follow Clarke and Mr. Bingley in their path. “Either you are in each other’s confidence and you have secret affairs to discuss, or you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking. If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here.”

Clarke knew that the pointedness of her words and voice was directed at Mr. Bingley’s utterly transparent attempts at catching Darcy’s attention, but she could not help the blush that rose to her cheeks.

“Shocking,” Mr. Roan said, as his sister snickered; his tone suggested that he considered himself as having won the bout. “How shall we punish her for such a speech?”

“We could always laugh at her,” Clarke suggested, eager to recover her composure, but Roan shook his head.

“Oh no! Miss Darcy is not to be teased.”

Having achieved his aim of discomfiting Darcy and making himself the sole focus of attention in the room, Roan left off his grip on Clarke’s arm and made his way back to his seat, settling himself into his armchair with a look of superior calm. Clarke, however, had yet some pride to recover, and, against her better judgement, found herself pausing at the side of Darcy’s table, where the letter to her brother lay entirely forgotten.

“Are you too proud, Miss Darcy?” she demanded, high spirits casting a flush across her cheeks. She imagined that the gentlewoman’s captivated stare was entirely due to the outward signs of her embarrassment, of which her coloration made an unfortunate display; in actuality, Darcy was entirely struck dumb by the way in which a little additional color enhanced Miss Bennet’s total loveliness. But Clarke could have had no idea about that. “And would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?”

“I couldn’t say,” Darcy replied, a little hoarsely and a little late – Clarke’s mouth was curved up in a mocking grin that had entirely distracted her.

“We must do our best to find a fault in you,” Miss Bennet continued, “or you may prove entirely too perfect.”

“Maybe it’s that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others, or their offenses against me,” Lexa said, mustering herself. “My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”

They held one another’s eyes for a few moments longer than the rhythms of a civil conversation demanded, each feeling as though they were falling into a bottomless blue pool, or getting lost in the winding wilds of a forest; neither imagined that the other might feel similarly. At last, regaining consciousness of the fact that they were not alone in the room, Clarke replied, “Oh dear, I cannot tease you about that. What a shame! For I dearly love to laugh.”

“A family trait, I think,” came Roan’s snide voice from across the room, but when Clarke looked at him sharply he had resumed pretending to read, and was hiding his smirk behind his hand.

Clarke returned to her seat in turn, and Lexa was abruptly conscious of being observed by two parties at once – parties who would deny their observations vehemently should they be confronted. She was certain of what Roan’s thoughts must be – much as he enjoyed his schemes and games of intrigue within his London circle, he was at heart a simple creature, and a vain one – he did not like to see attention directed at someone besides himself. Lexa knew that he would be utterly uninterested in her the moment they returned to more stimulating environs, but at this point he had some awareness of the odd degree of her regard for Miss Bennet, and was amusing himself with setting himself against her as a foil. And yet, to her eyes, all of the cultured conceit and elegant arrogance that he possessed was but a candle to the bright flame of Clarke Bennet’s sincerity. There was something about her eyes – no, about all of her – that captured Lexa’s attention, and held it. But whenever she tried to ascertain what  _ it  _ might be, it slipped away from her, like a fish too canny to be fooled by a lure.

Shaking herself briskly, Lexa returned to her letter, determined to finish it at last so that she might have the excuse of its postage to make her escape from the keen gazes upon her. She ignored all of Bingley’s protests about the ugliness of the weather (which contained a certain sullenness, suggesting that she was more upset about Darcy’s having a reason to escape the confines of the manor than she was concerned about her friend’s wellbeing), and Roan’s assurances that she might catch her death, and Miss Bennet’s silence upon the matter, and made her way to the stable. She rode to Meryton in the midst of a soaking rain, torn between powerful feelings: the sensation that she was at last able to breathe freely outside of Netherfield’s confines, and the persistent impression of Miss Clarke’s eyes upon her, wide and curious.


End file.
